Captive Trail (The Texas Trail Series Book 2)

by Susan Page Davis

  To the right, waiting under the overhang of the eaves, stood two women in long, black dresses. Robes. Habits. Some sort of head shawl—black again, with white showing over their foreheads—covered their hair. Ned glowered at no one in particular.

  To his left, Brownie Fale, Ned’s shotgun rider, leaned against an adobe wall of the station. He nodded at Ned and spit a stream of tobacco juice into the dust. They’d ridden hundreds, maybe thousands of miles together, hauling tons of freight. No need to talk now.

  The stage barreled into the yard in a cloud of dust and pulled up short. Ned looked over the high, curved body of the coach and pulled in a deep breath. Mighty fine rig. Driving it would be a pleasure, if it wasn’t too top heavy. Putting some passengers and freight inside would help.

  “Howdy, boys,” he called to the two men on the box. He stepped forward and opened the coach door. No one was inside, but three sacks of mail lay on the floor between the front and middle benches.

  The driver and shotgun rider jumped down.

  “How do, Ned,” said Sam Tunney. He and the shotgun rider headed out back to the privy while Tree’s boys began to change out the teams. Benito held the incoming mules’ heads, Diego and Esteban scrambled to unhitch them from the eveners, and Marcos stood by with the fresh team.

  Ned turned and went back inside. Tree sauntered toward him carrying a bulging sack on his shoulder. On the side was stenciled “U.S. Mail.”

  “There’s three sacks already in the stage,” Ned said.

  “Bueno. This’ll make four.” Tree pushed past him, out into the unrelenting sun. Ned followed. The nuns hadn’t moved. Tree plunked the sack of mail into the coach then leaned in and set it over, arranging it just so with the other three. He straightened and nodded. “All right, passengers can load.” He looked at the nuns. “All aboard, Sisters.”

  His second-oldest son, Marcos, waved from the rear of the coach’s roof and hopped down.

  As the nuns stepped forward, Tree said, “We’ve put your stuff in the boot. When you get to your place, the shotgun messenger will unload it for you.”

  “Thank you, Señor Garza,” said the nearer of the two.

  The women glided forward and, with a hand from Tree, mounted the step and disappeared inside the coach. Even with the mail sacks, they’d have plenty of room. Brownie sauntered over and climbed onto the driver’s box.

  “What do I call them?” Ned whispered as Tree turned back toward the station.

  “What you mean? You don’t have to call them anything.”

  Ned stepped into the shade of the eaves with him. “If we have an emergency or something.”

  “You won’t.”

  Ned felt like slugging him. He’d never seen a nun before. Just knowing they would be sitting back there in the coach made him nervous. “I’m just saying, Tree.”

  The station agent sighed. “Call them sisters, then.”

  Ned shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  “They’re not—I mean—I’m not—”

  “You’re not Catholic.” Ned nodded.

  “So call them ma’am, or ladies. Whatever polite names you’d call any woman in that situation.”

  “Right.”

  Tree nodded. “You know the place? It’s about five miles this side of the fort. No one’s lived there since Wisher left last fall. You’ve got no other passengers. If you make good time, you can swing in and set their boxes down for them. Won’t take you five minutes.”

  “But we don’t—”

  “Ned. They’re women.” Tree shook his head and walked away.

  Ned gulped and strode to the front of the stage. He swung up into the driver’s seat and smiled. This was something. Much better than a freight wagon, even if he was driving mules. He’d hoped for horses, but the Butterfield had invested heavily in mules. He’d take it.

  He gathered the reins of the four-in-hand team, released the brake, and nodded to Benito. The young man let go of the leaders’ heads and stepped to the side. Ned gave his whip three pops, and the mules surged forward.

  The team settled into a steady road trot. Ned glanced over at the shotgun messenger.

  Brownie grinned. “Feels different from a wagon, don’t it?”

  “Sure does.”

  “Not too hot today, neither.” Brownie cradled his shotgun in his arms.

  Ned started to disagree, but held his tongue. Up here, they caught a pleasant breeze. With his hat and the wind of their speed, it wasn’t bad. He held the reins and enjoyed the gentle swaying of the stage, the creak of the leathers, and the clop of shod hooves on the packed trail. The only thing that could make it better would be horses in the harness—and paying passengers.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Taabe opened her eyes. She lay on the ground between two clumps of buffalo grass, staring into the blue sky. The sun hung off to one side. She tried to sit up and moaned. Her head hurt and her arms ached.

  The stallion. His fall came back to her. He must have stepped in a hole. She’d flown off to the side, and that was all she remembered. She forced herself to a sitting position. Sharp pains stabbed her right ankle.

  She looked around, expecting to see the paint horse thrashing in the dirt, but she couldn’t spot him. How far away could he be? She tried to stand and sank back with a grimace. Bruises she could deal with, but the ankle was bad. Had the bones broken? She didn’t think so, but they might as well have. She was just as helpless.

  She listened, hearing nothing but the wind over the plain. Holding her right foot up behind her and using her knee and her left foot to push against the slippery grass, Taabe tried to rise. If the horse had survived the fall, maybe he was grazing nearby. But if not … She would have to leave as quickly as possible. If the horse lay dead or dying, Peca would soon see the vultures. And if the paint had headed back toward the Comanche village, the warriors would find him even quicker and swoop down on her.

  She got a quick look around then fell back to earth and lay panting, fending off nausea from the pain. She’d seen no sign of the horse. He was a good horse, doing everything she’d asked—until she’d fallen off and left him to run free.

  Taking stock of her possessions, so few now, she patted her torso. Her water skin still hung about her neck, but it had ruptured in the fall. Taabe pulled it off over her head. Her forearms stung where she’d smacked the ground. They bore red marks, but that was nothing. As she probed the skin beneath her right eye, she winced. The tissue was swollen and sore, but no blood came away on her fingertips. Her only serious injury seemed to be her ankle. Crushed for an instant as the horse fell and rolled? If that had happened, she ought to see him lying nearby. But he seemed to have gone on without her.

  She untied the thong from the useless water skin and tucked it into her parfleche—the soft deerskin bag she’d made to hold her few personal items. The split water skin, fashioned from a buffalo’s bladder, she dropped on the ground. It would do her no good.

  After a second’s thought, she grabbed it again. If Peca found it, he’d know she was nearby and desperate. She reached inside the parfleche, thankful she still had it, and felt the items, one by one. She hadn’t brought much. Miraculously, her small wooden flute was still in one piece.

  Only a handful of parched corn and a small bundle of pemmican remained. Enough for a day in ordinary times. It would have to last until she found another source of food. As to water, Taabe wouldn’t need as much without the horse to care for. But she would need some. The rest of her burden consisted of a knife, a small pouch of beads her adopted sister had given her, a piece of paper too wilted and worn to crackle any more, and an extra pair of moccasins. She debated whether to drop any of it and decided to keep everything. If Peca got to this spot and hadn’t found her horse, he would find no other clues to her desperation.

  She looked at the sun and squinted against the pain brought on by its brightness, trying to orient herself. On the horse’s back she’d sometimes seen distant landmarks
—undulations in the land, small ponds where water collected, rock formations. Down here in the grass, her view was restricted. She needed to keep going southeast.

  The sun was still climbing in the sky. She must have been unconscious only a short while. With clenched teeth, she rose on her knees and looked toward the north, the way she’d come, but couldn’t see enough. With great effort, she stood on her left foot, holding the right at an angle, the way horses rested one foot while they stood.

  The grass was bent where the paint had run through it, and she could see his trail. A few yards away, scuff marks revealed where he had fallen. She hopped a little closer. There was the hole her stallion had stepped in. There was where he’d hit the ground. She looked long in every direction, but he was gone.

  Taabe turned her back to the place where they’d fallen. A stick would help support her weight. That seemed her only option—she couldn’t crawl the rest of the way to the white man’s land.

  Several hundred yards to the southeast lay a line of treetops. It represented her best chance of finding both a walking stick and water. She hobbled toward it, gasping with each hitch of a step. After she’d gone ten yards, she lost her balance and toppled in the long grass. Once more she lay panting, gazing up at the sun. Her throbbing ankle almost made her forget the pain slicing through her head. For a moment she closed her eyes. Getting up was too hard. But if she stayed here, everything she’d done so far would be meaningless.

  Taabe rolled to her knees, gritted her teeth, and pushed herself up.

  “Did you know about this school the nuns are starting?” Ned asked as the stage started up a long, gradual hill.

  Brownie nodded, his eyes scanning the prairie. “I heard something about it. Saw the sisters once when I was going to the fort.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Four, I think.”

  Ned let that simmer as he guided the mules at a slow trot. Didn’t seem right, four women living alone on the frontier. And they expected people to let them educate their children. Girls, no less. Didn’t they know how many kids the roaming Apache and Comanche had snatched in the last few years? Out away from the forts, raids had become commonplace. Even the forts were no guarantee of safety. Still, the settlers kept coming and moving onto what had been Indian land. “They don’t have a priest or anyone like that living there?”

  “Nope,” Brownie said. “Just sisters.”

  They crested the hill, and Ned let the mules set their own pace down the other side. Being mules, that was barely quicker than they’d gone up the hill under his urging, but that was all right. Mules were steady. Tough and steady.

  The nuns’ mission house should be a mile or so ahead, around a sharp bend near the stream. Ned thought he knew the place—a large adobe with a small pole barn and a shed. A corn crib, maybe. He’d seen that it stood empty and wondered why no one was squatting there. It wasn’t a bad spot for a ranch. Wisher had run cattle on it and raised corn. If the nuns worked hard, they might make a go of it—especially if the parents paid well for their daughters’ schooling. But it was still too dangerous for a pack of women to live out here without any men to protect them.

  The off leader lagged a little, and Ned popped his whip. The mules picked up their pace. Ahead, something dark lay in the dusty road. Ned squinted at it but couldn’t make it out.

  “What is that?” he asked Brownie, who was scanning the range to the other side.

  “What?” Brownie looked forward. “Oh. Can’t tell.”

  “Dead deer, maybe?” Ned leaned forward, letting the mules clop toward it.

  “It’s a man,” Brownie said.

  “Whoa.” Ned pulled on the reins. The mules stopped and stood swishing their tails. Ned eyed the dark form in the dirt ahead. It did look human. Someone wearing clothing darker than the road’s packed earth, with a lighter blob at one end—a hat? Hair? The more he looked, the more certain he was that it was human.

  It could be a trap. Someone planning to hold up the stage on its first mail run. “What do you think?”

  Brownie spat over the side. “Don’t know. Robbers usually stop you at a narrow place or a bridge. Go a little closer.”

  Ned searched the sides of the road. There wasn’t a lot of cover, but Mescalero could hide in the grass or behind a rock no bigger than a bucket. He could whip up the mules and approach at full speed—or maybe take the stage off the road across the open ground. “I’m not losing the mail.” He gathered the reins.

  “Excuse me! Driver?”

  Ned flinched. One of the nuns had spoken. They’d been so quiet on the four-hour ride, he’d almost forgotten about them, except when they’d stopped at a swing station to change teams.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  He craned his neck, leaned over the side, and looked down at her. She’d stuck her head out the window and was staring up at him.

  “Yes, ma’am. It looks like someone’s lying in the road up ahead. We—”

  Before he could finish, the stagecoach door opened. The nun climbed down in a swirl of black skirts. “Ma’am, don’t—”

  Too late. She moved faster than a jackrabbit. Already she was past the wheelers.

  “Ma’am, wait. You’d best stay in the coach and let us look into it.”

  She looked back at him, her brown eyes sharp. “Then do it. That person could be in dire straits.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Or could be waiting to ambush us.” She was just an ordinary woman, Ned told himself. The nun had faint wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, but other than that, her skin was white and smooth. She might be his Aunt Alla, in dress-up clothes—they showed the same tendency for practical bossiness.

  She scowled and turned once more toward the distant figure, walking with deliberate strides.

  “No, wait!” Ned handed the reins to Brownie and hopped down. He caught up with the sister just in front of the lead mules. “You stay back, ma’am. I’ll go check what’s going on.”

  She hesitated, then gave him a quick nod.

  Ned pulled his Colt from his holster and pointed it toward the form on the ground. It was definitely a body, but whether dead or alive, he couldn’t tell. As he approached, he realized the face-down figure wore buckskins. Long, light brown hair spread over the shoulders and dragged in the dirt.

  His heart thudded. Could be a Comanche, though the hair seemed too light, and their men usually braided their hair. A white Indian? He’d heard of captive children becoming fiercer warriors than their captors. Ned looked around, more suspicious than ever. Were a dozen more braves lurking nearby?

  He stopped six feet away and held his aim steady. “Get up.”

  The body didn’t stir. He swallowed hard and stepped close enough to nudge it with his foot. A soft moan floated up to him.

  “That’s a woman!”

  The fact that the nun now stood at his elbow startled Ned more than her words. He gave her a quick glance then looked back at the body. Could she be right? He let his gaze travel over the figure, taking in the thin frame beneath the tattered buckskins. The shirt was longer than the men usually wore. One hand was flung out near the head. The fingers were slender and, yes, feminine, but the nails were broken and bloody. And a line of red paint flakes showed faintly at the parting of the hair. A woman, all right.

  Ned swallowed. “You want to turn her over? I’ll step back and cover you, in case it’s a trick.”

  “It can’t be a trick.” The nun pushed forward and knelt beside the body. She grasped one shoulder.

  Ned wouldn’t have been surprised if the prone person grabbed the nun and put a knife to her throat. Instead, the sister rolled the body easily into a face-up position. Another low moan sounded.

  Ned stepped forward slowly. Purple bruises puffed out the right side of the woman’s face. Her hands and forearms bore scratches and bruises. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Ned leaned closer and looked into her face.

  The young woman gazed back at him with fearfu
l blue eyes.

  Taabe blinked. Even that hurt. Her head throbbed, and her heart raced.

  She didn’t move. Two white people stooped over her. She had been found.

  What would they do to her? The Numinu told many stories of Indians being mistreated by the whites. She didn’t want to believe those stories, but finding herself so near them and utterly defenseless made her quiver.

  She closed her eyes again and pulled in a deep breath. One of the faces was stark white—had they painted their skin?

  The man said something, sharp and wary. The other answered in soft, gentle tones. A woman. Taabe tried to open her eyes to see the white woman, but it was too hard. The swelling made it difficult to see from that eye anyway. She wanted to tell them her ankle was hurt and she couldn’t walk. That her lips were parched from lack of water.